Connections
by Kaerya
Summary: There are ties that bind and swords that are doubleedged. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Every decision has unforseeable consquences, but they all lead up to an unavoidable conclusion.


AN: Because even evil, despotic, world-conquering Dark Lords can have moments of introspection. This was originally written as an assignment for my Creative Writing class, because my teacher's cool and lets us turn in fanfiction for assignments. Anyway, the topic was love, and as everyone around me began writing the sappiest things they could think of (or erotic in the case of a couple of the guys), I decided that I wanted to do something different. I'm not a very romantic person, so the first thing that popped into my head was "Different? How about a love story from Voldemort's pov?" I thought it was an interesting idea, so I wrote it. It has deviated a bit from the original assignment parameters, but I like it anyway. All advice, comments, queries and criticisms welcome.

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He stared out the window up into the night sky, waiting for moonrise. A crystal goblet rested in his hands, its dainty stem a pair of entwined snakes. The dark liquid caught the flickering of the light from the fireplace, casting a surreal, crimson reflection on the window.

It was the sort of ambience he once have spent hours trying to contrive, but now, he couldn't even bring himself to take advantage of it. Once, he would have never wasted such an inspiring, naturally occurring atmosphere. Tonight, he couldn't even bring himself to tolerate any company, not that of his loyal followers, Nagini, or even the inconspicuous presence of a single house-elf.

On the surface, he had no reason to be so morose. The war was progressing better than he'd had any right to expect, especially after all the mistakes that he had made. Yes, he'd suffered the occasional setback, but the gains he'd made far outweighed his losses. If it weren't for that boy, he would have already won.

That boy. Therein lay the problem, the reason that the most powerful wizard in the world was sitting up with a glass of wine in spite of his exhaustion. One, single, teenaged boy.

Harry Potter.

As little as a year ago, the very sound of that name would have sent him into an ice-cold rage. Now though, he was so fatigued that he couldn't bring himself to do more than glare down at his image in the wine.

It was rather paradoxical actually. His name inspired such feelings of fear, terror, and helplessness that few could force themselves to say it, but that boy's name held a great deal of power itself, though largely unrecognized. For years the name Harry Potter had been synonymous to peace and freedom from fear, as it now instilled such hope in the hearts of the wizarding world, more so even than the Mudblood-loving Albus Dumbledore.

How ironic.

In a fit of anger, he flung the wineglass at the far wall. It shattered and, as he watched the crimson streaming down the uneven stone, his fury abruptly dissipated. These days, hatred seemed to take more energy than it was worth. His body sagged in his chair, and he rested his head in his hands. He supposed that, at that moment, he looked less like a conquering Dark Lord, and more like tired, apathetic, old man.

The description was apt, for how he felt as well as for how he looked. For the first time in his life, Lord Voldemort felt that all his scheming wasn't worth its price. He knew, with absolute certainty, that his condition was Harry Potter's fault.

There was no rage this time, but rather the welling of a different emotion, one that he refused to identify. A warmth seemed to fill his stomach and he felt his pale cheeks flush. If he ignored the protections that he'd placed upon himself, he almost could have been convinced that he was suffering from an illness and nothing more. Almost, but not quite.

Now that he thought about it, it really was a disease of sorts, though he doubted that any healer had ever encountered a condition like his. It had been steadily worsening, slowly eating at his sanity, ever since that fateful night at the Department of Mysteries. That night when his trap had backfired, Bellatrix had killed Sirius Black, and he had attempted to possess Harry Potter. Not only had he been unable to hear the prophecy in its entirety, but he'd lost his sole advantage, that of anonymity behind the Ministry's denial.

And, as if that wasn't enough, he'd managed to inadvertently give Harry Potter a weapon against himself, though he seriously doubted that the boy was aware of it. His attempted possession had turned what had been a tiny trickle of thought connecting them into a rushing torrent of emotion. Ironically, he didn't think that the boy was even aware of the change, emotionally distraught as he was. Where once they'd experienced the occasional dream or quick burst of sensations, now Harry Potter's emotions were a constant assault on his mind. Where it had once been his decision whether or not to invade the boy's thoughts, now he had no choice in the matter.

Oh, of course he was skilled at Occlumency, but all of his ability was hardly of any use if he didn't realize what was happening. And, strange as it sounded to him now, he hadn't, at least not at first. Why should he? No one had ever before dared to pry into the mind of Lord Voldemort.

It hadn't helped that the Potter boy's emotions were so familiar to him in the beginning. The pain, the anger, the almost constant anger at the fates for their treatment of him, along with intermittent bursts of melancholy and depression; it was all as familiar to him as the back of his hand, more so, actually, given how new this body of his was. Each emotion was one that he had once suffered from and still occasionally did. He had wondered at the sudden revival of emotions he'd thought long since buried, but there were other things he'd had to focus his attention on. And if some of the emotions he'd felt were unlike anything he'd ever felt before, well, that was only to be expected after having created an entirely new body from scratch; it wasn't reasonable to assume that it would respond just like his old body had. There were always explanations. The way his throat tightened, and his stomach churned; that wasn't due to guilt, only disgust at the thoughtless mistakes he'd made. The wistful loss of focus, that couldn't have been due to a longing for one lost forever, but rather a desire for the victory he'd almost allowed to slip away again.

Or so he'd told himself. Only now could he recognize those feelings for what they really were.

It wasn't until he'd begun experiencing things that couldn't possibly be explained away, that he'd begun to doubt and worry. At night, in his dreams, he'd unaccountably find himself wondering about the veil and what lay beyond it. Before that Le Fay cursed night at the Department of Mysteries, he'd possessed—not a fear, the Dark Lord feared nothing, after all, but—something of an aversion towards the veil. Other things filled his dreams as well, things that no amount of rationalization could dismiss. He'd never before dreamed of flying, and then, many of those dreams that did not involve the veil involved Quidditch, a game he'd never found an interest in. There were waking clues as well. He'd felt amusement and annoyance in short, little bursts, once, a feeling of pure, unadulterated joy while sitting in a dull meeting, listening to Wormtail's reports, inexplicable trust for those he knew were completely untrustworthy, and all for no reason that he could fathom.

Still, in spite of how distracting all of that was, he could have lived with it. Oh, it had been irksome, but he could have managed. Then, things changed again.

It wasn't all at once, no. If it had been, he probably would have made the connection sooner. It started as the occasional shortness of breath or quickening of pulse, not drastically different from any of his other symptoms. Then, there were times when he'd felt the oddest tingling sensation on his arm or hand, and once, his cheek.

That's when the pattern of his dreams changed again. The dreams of the veil began to occur more and more infrequently, Quidditch still just as often, but now there was something else. Not a dream in and of itself, more like an addition to those he already had. Shining, twinkling eyes, a sweet, cheerful smile, a ready laugh… and even occasionally the girl to which all belonged, they haunted his mind at night. For some reason, he could never quite remember what the girl looked like.

When Wormtail reported that Harry Potter had acquired a girlfriend, he was not surprised. It only confirmed what he'd begun to suspect. The Dark Lord, Lord Voldemort, the single most powerful wizard in the history of the world was suffering from the emotional roller coaster of a teenaged boy. Once he'd realized, he'd immediately taken the appropriate steps. First, he'd attempted to sever the tie between them, but had discovered that it had run unchecked for too long, cemented by the blood that he had stolen and his botched possession endeavor. To do so would cost him the immortality that he had worked so hard to acquire. No, severing the tie was not an option. So he'd settled for blocking it, creating what he'd thought was an impenetrable barrier between them, using all the knowledge, both light and dark, that was at his disposal.

Even that was only partially successful, he'd discovered to his immense frustration. Most of the boy's emotions had been successfully muted; the guilt, anger, trust and the other, more powerful emotions were barely a shadow on the Foe-Glass.

However, on evenings such as this one, it was as though the barricade was nothing more than a translucent piece of cloth, blowing out of the way at every emotion. There were times when Harry Potter was filled with such an overwhelming sense of—well, love was really the only word for it, love for the people around him, and at those times, he doubted that any power in the world could hold the barricade between the boy and himself.

He knew that love was a potent emotion, how could he not when it was that very emotion that had almost destroyed him, but he still maintained that love was the greatest weakness a man could have, precisely because of that potency. He found it distracting, wearing, and perplexing and he suspected that the boy felt the same. Anything that could so completely submerge all sense of logic, control and priorities could not possibly be anything but a weakness.

So he was left to ride out the storm, to wait until these volatile emotions had begun to recede once more. Then he had to begin the tedious process of rebuilding his protections, for they never survived the onslaught of that feeling. He supposed that if the Potter boy ever experienced true hatred, that emotion would be just as damaging, but he doubted that he would ever be able to hate that deeply. The Dark Lord knew hatred, and Harry Potter just didn't have it in him. So he found himself with a critical weakness coming up upon the peak of war. It was utterly debilitating when the barrier was down, and the continuous reconstruction of it was a distraction at best. Even sniveling Wormtail had figured out that his Master was occupied with something besides the campaign, though he was fairly confident that that whining little rat hadn't discovered why yet. It was only a matter of time, though. He could not continue fighting a two front war forever. And it was all Harry Potter's fault.

He trembled then, in silent fury, his nails digging small crescents in the palms of his hands. It was so very frustrating because he knew exactly what he had to do. To win the war, he'd have to kill Harry Potter. To stop this invasion of his mind, he'd have to kill Harry Potter. Everything was hinged on that one boy's life.

There was once solution to all his problems, and it just happened to be the one solution that he could not accomplish, thanks to a foolish woman's sacrifice and an eccentric old man. He knew there were other ways to achieve his goals, but each was impossible while he was distracted with the other. A stalemate and the Order of the Phoenix didn't even know it.

If only there was someway to destroy the emotions without having to kill the boy. His gaze drifted to the wine pooling at the base of the wall. Hopeless, it was hopeless. If he couldn't find a key, then it could very well be his blood pooling on the floor of this mansion.

He clenched one long-fingered hand, struggling to control himself. Something was nagging at the back of his mind, a solution that hovered just out of reach. He couldn't afford to let these foreign emotions control him. He frowned and narrowed his eyes as he fought to make the connection. It was true that love put the boy beyond his reach, but…

He was the only youth that truly was beyond his reach. Those protections worked for him alone and no one else. If it were any other student he needed to dispose of, he could, easily.

To destroy the emotion, without destroying the boy… all he had to do was destroy those who inspired such emotions in him. He smiled fiercely, straightening in his chair. Of course. It seemed obvious to him now. The perfect solution, he knew it. Destroy Harry Potter's friends.

He'd have to kill everyone close to the boy. The death of his godfather hadn't broken him, so Lord Voldemort doubted that just one more death, even that of someone very close to him would do it. It might, but he wouldn't count on it. He'd already made enough mistakes due to lack of foresight; he wouldn't let that happen again.

For a moment he considered his options. He'd been told that the boy had, for all purposes, been adopted into the Weasley family. The idea of massacring them appealed to him, especially the irony of having destroyed every family Harry Potter had ever known. However, most of those blood-traitors were fully qualified wizards, and, he'd been told, quite powerful. Even the dumpy little house-witch had been a force to be reckoned with in the first war. Killing them would not be impossible, but it would be difficult and require the devotion of a great many of his resources. Besides, he rather wanted to make a statement. It would be so much more effective to slaughter people dear to Potter who were helpless and uninvolved, leaving him only with the certainty that it was their relationship to him that had led to their deaths. Even if his incompetent Death Eaters bungled a few of the assassinations, only a few would have to succeed in order for Potter's guilt to do their job for them.

He knew exactly who to target. The night of the Department of Mysteries debacle, he'd apparated as soon as a probe into MacNair's mind revealed that something had gone wrong with the plan. He'd appeared inside the Hall of Prophecy, only to find it empty, with a great many of the shelves broken, the prophecies they'd held shattered. He'd felt a moment of disgust for all that lost knowledge, but he'd contained it, hearing the sounds of fighting echoing around him. He'd walked to the door at the end of aisle 94, and stepped into the Brain Room and frozen, seeing that this room, unlike the last, was not unoccupied.

Lying to his left had been a pale girl, just regaining consciousness. She'd blinked dazedly and looked up at him. He remembered noting that she seemed to have the bizarre eyes possessed by the Lovegood clan. A few feet from her lay another girl, limp and unmoving, with a tangled mass of dark hair. He hadn't recognized her and had dismissed her as unimportant. On the other side of the room three figures had been huddled together. Two had the red Weasley hair. The blond girl had spoken then, saying, "You resemble one of the Glora Eaters of Madagascar," before losing consciousness again and drawing the attention of the other three.

Two really, the Weasley boy had been sobbing hysterically, muttering under his breath and rubbing at the welts on his face. "Who are you?" asked the other boy, his face giving Lord Voldemort a momentary shock, making him recall another face glaring defiantly by her husband's side. The Longbottom boy then. What a coincidence.

The boy had opened his mouth to repeat his question, but the red-haired girl sitting on the other side of the Weasley boy cut him off. "Voldemort." At the Longbottom boy's gasp of horror, she reiterated, "It's Voldemort." Her voice was rough and it shook with some emotion that he assumed must be hatred.

He felt a moment's curiosity that the girl had recognized him so quickly with his face hidden in the shadow, but his musings had been cut short by the boy. "STUBEFY!" He was pointing a wand and, miraculously considering his terrible enunciation, the spell actually worked. With a quick flick of his wand, the Dark Lord had raised a shield spell, reflecting the boy's back at him. As he fell limp, Lord Voldemort turned his attention to the girl.

With a quick, "Expelliarmus," her wand had been ripped from her hand and flung across the room. She'd attempted to lunge to her feet, but she collapsed with a cry of pain, clutching at her ankle. She'd glared at him then, as though daring him to do his worst.

He'd chuckled at her little display, and watched her scowl deepen. He'd locked eyes with her and asked, "Where is Potter?" The girl had spasmed, but had been unable to tear her eyes away from his.

"Why should I tell you?" Her lips had curled defiantly and he'd shrugged.

"Well, if you insist on doing this the hard way." He'd grasped her mind with his, then, and opened it to himself. He'd felt stunned at just how easy it was. It was as though someone had spent months carving a mental channel right into the girl's head. It hadn't been used for years, but what had truly surprised him was that it seemed to have been designed especially for him. The girl had no resistance to him whatsoever.

He hadn't had time to ponder the mystery though. As soon as he'd seen which way the Potter boy had gone, he pulled out of her mind. He'd hit her with a stunning spell, then Obliviated the bodies of each of the youths who had seen him, even the blond girl and the hysterical boy. He hadn't known what to make of the girl and he'd wanted time to figure it out, and he'd had to be on his way in order to salvage his plan.

He gazed out the window, tapping his thin lips thoughtfully. Events had never given him the opportunity to discover just what his connection to the Weasley girl was, and he didn't really have time to ponder it now. He did however, have the perfect targets.

He rang for Wormtail to attend to him. The rat had arrived, groveling, but, once he'd heard what his master wanted, he proved useful enough.

Ronald Weasley, Harry Potter's best friend. Lord Voldemort had a great deal of information on him, thanks to Wormtail, information on his habits, vices and weaknesses that could be quite useful.

Ginevra Weasley, the youngest and only girl in the Weasley clan. He didn't have nearly as much intelligence for her, but Wormtail had still managed to tell him a great deal, though his information was dated.

Neville Longbottom, the other boy that the prophecy might have been referring to. By all reports, he was an incompetent fool and should make an easy target.

Luna Lovegood, the oddball of that group of youths. She was the only one who wasn't in Gryffindor, and her family was a tad reclusive, making information on her difficult to acquire. However, what he had found didn't make her seem like much of a threat.

And finally, the girl he hadn't been able to identify, and no wonder. She was the Muggle-born Hermione Granger, Harry Potter's friend since his first year. He had a good deal of information on her, but he wasn't certain whether or not to trust it. Most of Wormtail's knowledge of her was second-hand and biased, so he'd have to be careful when dealing with her.

He dismissed Wormtail, ordering him to send in one of the elves. He was looking out the window once more when the creature entered, bowing deeply and looking at the hem of his robe. "What can Chipper do for Master?" It darted a glance at the shards of glass and the stain on the stone and said, "Perhaps a clean-up?"

"No," he said, watching the house-elf's bat like ears droop. "You will return with another glass," he gestured at the far wall. "However, you may send another elf up to clean." The servant bowed and scurried away.

Lord Voldemort's mood was soaring and, for the first time in months, it wasn't because of Harry Potter. He started as he realized that the emotions that had been plaguing him earlier had faded. Good. Tonight's ordeal was finally over.

He began to rebuild his barrier, and smiled. This might not be the last time he'd have to do so, but it was certainly close. Soon, he'd never have to worry about it again.

Soon…


End file.
